


Tu M'as Sauvé (You Saved Me)

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anorexia, Blood, Character Death, Cutting, Death, Deathfic, Eating Disorders, Grief/Mourning, Hearing Voices, I'm Sorry, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Not Happy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sad, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Triggers, Who knew?, You Have Been Warned, combeferre defs taught him everything he knows, courfeyrac is actually tech-savvy, first three chapters are fluffy, jehan can't internet, last three chapters are dark and very possibly trigger-y, so i guess combeferre knew, suicide letter, tags and rating will increase as chapters progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that Courfeyrac saves Jehan and one time that he doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Projet Final (Final Project)

                “Jehan?” he called, opening the door of their apartment and tossing his messenger bag into a corner of the kitchen.

                “In here!” came the frazzled reply.

                Courfeyrac sauntered through the apartment, picking up a tattered paperback that he was supposed to be reading for Lang and Comp II and an apple on his way to the bedroom. He took a big bite and pushed open the door, almost spitting it out when he looked inside.

                Granted, he and Jehan weren’t exactly the neatest people, but when he’d left that morning, the room had been passably clean, with just a few articles of clothing and some school books scattered around the room. Now, however, it looked as if a bomb had gone off.

                The room looked like a disaster area. Loose-leaf pages were scattered on every available surface. Pages ripped from books and annotated and color-marked were taped and push-pinned to the walls and the headboard and the sides of the dresser. Words so messy they looked like runes were scrawled on everything from class syllabi to grocery store receipts. Near the trashcan lay a handful of broken ballpoint pens, as if they’d been tossed in that general direction. At least a dozen spiral-bound notebooks lay open in a circle on the bed, Jehan at its center, scribbling in yet another notebook.

                At the sound of the door opening, the poet looked up, his eyes wide and fevered. “Courf, I am uninspired!” he wailed, ink-stained hands raking through his hair, which was uncharacteristically messy and long ago pulled from its neat braid.

                “What’s wrong?” he asked, shutting the door gently and taking a cautious step into the room, careful not to disturb the flood of paper on the floor.

                “Our final project for my poetry class is due _tomorrow_ and I can’t think of anything to write my poem about!”

                Courfeyrac picked up the closest piece of paper and smoothed it out, looking it over. It was covered on both sides with Jehan’s cramped writing and appeared to be a list of various adjectives and synonyms arranged by number of syllables. He took another bite of his apple and chewed thoughtfully, only looking up when he heard Jehan begin vigorously scribbling anew, his hand moving across the page at a frantic pace.

                Twenty minutes later, Jehan was fast asleep in the middle of his paper nest, a soft smile flitting across his lips in sleep.

                Six days later, he burst into the apartment, waving a piece of paper and shouting with unintelligible enthusiasm. “Hey,” Courf smiled as he stood up to give the poet a hug. “What’s got you so excited?”

                He grinned as he presented Courfeyrac with the paper.

                “‘Final Project of Jean Prouvaire’,” the dark-haired man read aloud. “‘Excellent job on this assignment, Monsieur Prouvaire. I asked for your best work and you rose to the occasion. Very inspired.’” He flipped back the title page and stopped short, rereading and rereading before he looked up at Jehan. “You…you wrote your poem…about…me?”

                He nodded, helpless to the grin spreading across his face. “You saved the day, Courf.”

                _Grade Report : While Monsieur Prouvaire’s work is often late, it always carries with it the mark of a true artistic heart and mind, though his penmanship could stand improvement, for he writes like a drunken crab. His first semester final project (entitled “Courfeyrac”) earned by far the highest grade in the class, with a mark of ninety-seven percent._


	2. Je Me Suis Cassé l'Internet (I Broke The Internet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac gets some frantic texts and has to deal Jehan's semi-disturbing lack of tech-savvy-ness (tech-savitity? (okay now I'm just making up words)).

                Courfeyrac was sitting quietly beside Enjolras as he and Combeferre discussed God-knows-what over their delicious bacon-and-barbeque-sauce pizza lunch when his phone beeped quietly with a text.

**Jehan: !!!!!!!!!**

                He smiled.

**Courf: :) hey baby what’s up??**

                **Jehan: COURF HLP EMRGNCY**

**Courf: ???!!??!**

**Jehan: just get here and HURRY pllllleeease time is of the essence**

                When he reached the apartment door and swung it open—panting, as he had deemed the elevator too slow and had _sprinted_ up the four flights of stairs—he was expecting something terrible, like a fire or Jehan lying in pain somewhere with a broken leg or…something.

                Something that wasn’t his boyfriend pacing a hole in the rug of their living room, his hands tangled in his hair and muttering to himself, shooting evil looks towards their bedroom every so often.

                “Jehan,” he gasped, dragging himself over the threshold and grabbing the poet by the forearms. “What’s going on?”

                The pained, lost look in the taller man’s eyes could never have prepared Courfeyrac for the words that came out of his mouth:

                “The wifi’s out.”

                He stared at him for a moment. “What?”

                Jehan’s eyes widened in horror and he repeated, “The wifi’s out, Courf, and I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.”

                Courfeyrac sighed and ran a hand through his curls. “I’ll be back,” he muttered, taking off out of the apartment once again, a quietly panicked “ _Hurry_ ,” urging him on.

                Not even ten minutes later, he was back at his own front door, cautiously stepping inside for the second time that afternoon. On the couch, he found Jehan, smiling happily with his laptop perched on his knees as he typed something in front of the newest police drama on TNT.  “Better?” he inquired, going to sit down beside Jehan. “I reset the router.”

                His head cocked to the side in confusion, long braid slipping over his shoulder as he did so. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

                The dark-haired man rolled his eyes, “Don’t say that ‘Ferre never taught me nothing. So, _euh_ , is it better? Did I fix it?”

                The poet smiled, nodded, and leaned over to plant a soft kiss at the corner of Courfeyrac’s mouth. “ _Ouais_ , Courf. You saved the day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh making this a 5+1 was a dumb idea. I swear, later chapters will be better. Incidentally, what is one thing that totally ruins your day? (comment if you want to see it happen to your favorite long-haired French poet-boy)


	3. Il Pleut, Il Pleut Des Cordes (It’s Raining, It’s Pouring)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wetcat!Jehan and savior!Courfeyrac.
> 
> ain't nothin' but a thang, y'all.

                It was raining and Jehan was digging desperately into his pockets to try and find his student bus pass. “Please, _Monsieur_ ,” he begged the driver, “Just a moment…”

                The driver frowned, “I have a schedule to keep, young man. I’m sorry, you’ll just have to wait for the next one.” And he began to close the doors.

                “Wait!” came a cry from back the street a ways. Jehan turned to see Courfeyrac sprinting towards him, his school bag bouncing wildly at his hip. “Wait!” The driver opened the door again and Courf rushed up the stairs, pulling Jehan behind him by the wrist. “Swipe it twice, please,” he said as he handed his card to the driver. “His fare’s on me.”

                Jehan swooped the smaller man into a massive hug right there on the steps of the bus, planting a light kiss in his dark, wet curls. “What would I do without you?” he sighed. “You saved the day again, Courf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! if you like the lighter, fluffy-ish fic you have seen the last three chapters, you might what to leave this fic and never return. Because from here on out, it is much, much darker.


	4. Laissez Cette Chose Gouverner Votre Vie (Let This Thing Rule Your Life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac paused for a moment, trying to think of an angle that would knock Jehan off balance enough to force him to tell the truth. “Which kind of starving do you do? The kind where you just don’t eat at all or the kind where you eat a ton and bring it all back up afterwards? Or some weird, twisty combination of both?”
> 
> “Why does it matter?” Jehan sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR EATING DISORDERS AND ANOREXIA IN PARTICULAR.
> 
> DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED.
> 
> PLEASE, PLEASE DO NOT TRIGGER ON PURPOSE.
> 
> If you need someone to talk to, I'm around. You can find my email in my profile. Stay strong, lovelies! xx

                Jehan had skipped meals in high school, often during cramming periods when he genuinely just forgot in the mad scramble of prepping for test time, but never regularly. He’d always been skinny, hadn’t ever needed to lose any weight because he simply didn’t have the weight _to_ lose.

                Then, one day in university, he failed an Introduction to Level I Biology (the science class he had to take to graduate) exam. Not a huge deal in any of his other classes, but Intro to Level I Bio only consisted of four exams and failing one could cause his grade to go through the floor and stay there permanently. He was so distraught that he couldn’t eat, even when Courf brought home his favorite spicy Thai noodles. Sometime in the middle of the next day, he realized that he still hadn’t eaten. He stopped caring, however, the moment that he realized that focusing on the physical pain of not eating for two days had thoroughly distracted him from his mental anguish.

                It—the whole “not-eating-proper-meals-at-normal-intervals” thing happened a few more times before it hit him fully. Skipping meals was sort of a self-inflicted form of punishment. A way to cause anguish, and pain. And that was what he needed to do. To punish himself, make himself _feel_ real pain, real anguish. Because that was what real art grew out of. Raw, tender feelings. And he couldn’t help but figure that maybe if he got better at inflicting punishment upon himself, his art would be better, too.

                So when he noticed that he’d dropped a few pounds, he felt a sense of surprising relief flood through his system. Better. He was doing it, but he could do better. He got thinner little by little, doubling up on sweaters and wearing too many layers at all times. But it still wasn’t enough. He’d skip eating when he went out with his friends, or tell Courf that he’d picked something up on his way back from his life-drawing class (stupid decision, letting Grantaire drop off his class applications at the start of the year; the painter had made sure to sign Jehan and Combeferre each up for an art class, his reasoning being that Combeferre could learn facial anatomy structures from portraiture and Jehan could extend his grasp on beauty through simple sketching) and eaten it while he trekked back across campus. And the pain was always there, twisting at his insides and screaming at him that this behavior was _not okay_ , and reminding him how well he was doing.

                At some point, he found himself in genuine disgust of the food that Courfeyrac brought home from the grocery store—English muffins (with butter) and oatmeal (brown sugar and cream) and bagels (cream cheese and chive spread)—and stuck with his own tried-and-true grocery list of rice cakes (with Sriracha) and almonds and macadamia nuts and plums and apples. Despite it all, though, Jehan still found himself breaking out in tears at the most inopportune moments, hating himself for not being good enough to make beautiful poetry without “it”, wishing he were just thinner and smarter and flat-out _better_. And no one even blinked at his tears, because it was indeed _Jehan_ they were talking about.

                So when he came home one evening in the early spring and Courfeyrac frowned at him and asked, “Hey, did you eat yet?” he lied.

                “ _Ouais_ , I already did.”

                The words just slipped out, coming as easily as his written verse. Almost immediately, though, he wanted to grab them back and shove them into his mouth and down his esophagus and into his perpetually-empty stomach.

                “Sure?”

                “ _Ouais_.”

                One of his math professors had once described a particular proof and “beautiful and delicious”. If Jehan could have eaten his own words at that moment, he would’ve.

                “I know when you called me you said you ate with Grantaire but guess who just texted me?” He didn’t wait for a reply, just kept talking, “‘Taire, and he said that you didn’t eat anything with him and to make sure I fed you a big dinner tonight, because Enjolras told him that you didn’t eat when you had breakfast with him and Marius, either. Jesus, Jehan,” Courfeyrac whispered. “Did you eat anything today?” he asked, his voice low and deadly serious.

                Jehan looked at him from under his pale lashes, “ _Ouais_ , of course.”

                “You did not.” His voice was tight and clipped, “I know you had lunch with ‘Ponine because you _always_ have lunch with ‘Ponine on Thursdays and she said you didn’t eat, but that you drank your entire water bottle like six times. You haven’t eaten. Don’t lie to me.”

                “Courf, please, I’m not lying. It’s nothing.”

                “Don’t fucking lie to me, Jehan!” Courfeyrac suddenly screamed, holding tight to the poet’s nearly-stick-like upper arms, his hands closing completely around the skinny biceps. All the rage bled out of him in an instant when he felt the delicate bones under his hands, though, and he heaved a sigh. “Shit, you’re thin. You didn’t eat all day and I’m guessing you weren’t planning on eating when you got home, either. Shit,” he muttered again, carding a hand through his hair. “Now that I actually stop for a second and think about it, I can’t even fucking remember the last time I saw you eating. What the actual fuck, Jehan. Have you just _stopped_?”

                “No!” the poet cried defensively. “I eat…”

                “You don’t, though.” Courfeyrac’s voice sounded empty, and broken, so unlike him.

                “Look, Courf,” he sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

                “ _Non_ , we _have_ to talk about your eating.”

                “Jesus fucking Christ!” Jehan uncharacteristically exploded. “It’s _fine_. Why can’t you all just leave me _alone_?”

                “It’s not fine; you don’t eat!”

                “I do so!”

                “Oh, yeah? Okay then. How much do you weigh?” He held up a hand when Jehan opened his mouth, “And don’t lie to me because if I ever _think_ you’re lying, I’ll literally hold you down and weigh you myself. And you know that I can.”

                Jehan’s eyes blazed with something akin to rage, “I hate you.”

                “It is literally not possible for me to fucking care any less than I do right now. How much?”

                “A hundred and four, okay?” he mumbled, hanging his head. “I weigh a whopping hundred and four pounds.”

                For once, Courfeyrac was speechless. It took him a moment to recover, then, “You weigh a hundred and four pounds? Jesus, _Jehan_ , how in the hell are you not actually _dead_ yet?”

                “Well, I’m not an _idiot_ , for one,” he pointed out sardonically.

                “No matter how smart you are, a deadly disease is still a deadly disease. Deadly,” he stressed. “As in, you can _die_ from that sorta shit.”

                “Still alive,” he smirked, spreading his skinny arms wide.

                Courfeyrac paused for a moment, trying to think of an angle that would knock Jehan off balance enough to force him to tell the truth. “Which kind of starving do you do? The kind where you just don’t eat at all or the kind where you eat a ton and bring it all back up afterwards? Or some weird, twisty combination of both?”

                “Why does it matter?” Jehan sighed. “It’s not like I’m about to pass out.”

                “You look it.”

                He shot Courfeyrac a revolted look, “People need far less daily nutrition than they believe that they do.”

                Courfeyrac’s fingers tightened until he was digging little half-moon cuts into his palms. “Siddown.” The poet made a noise of protest and he erupted, “Jesus H. Christ, Jehan; sit the _fuck_ down, now!” He stepped in the kitchen, shooting backwards glances at his boyfriend from time to time where he was lying curled up awkwardly on the couch. He heated a little bit of milk in the microwave and mixed it with a healthy scoop of protein powder, then walked back to the couch and held it out to his boyfriend. “Drink it. Drink it, because if you don’t, I swear I’ll call student health and get you committed to inpatient.”

                “Why do you hate me?” Jehan mumbled.

                “It’s not because I _hate_ you—fuck, Jehan, who could _ever_ hate _you?_ You’re like the fucking _sun,_ it’s like there’s a fucking light inside of you; you shine and everyone smiles when they see you—but because I love you and I utterly refuse to let you throw yourself away.”

                Jehan rolled his eyes but didn’t reply. He took the mug from Courfeyrac and slowly sipped until it was empty. Courf took the cup back from him, dumped about four times as much protein and vitamin powder in again, stirred in some milk, handed it back, and watch Jehan slowly drink the second cup.

                “It’s been kind of a long time since you ate anything, _ouais_?” Jehan hesitated, then nodded carefully as Courfeyrac sat down on the opposite end of the couch, observing the scarily-skinny poet guardedly. “Drink up now, all of it.” At Jehan’s startled noise of protest, he continued, “You don’t have to do it all in one go. Take as long as you need, because I don’t care how long it takes, just so long as it gets done.” The room was silent for a long minute, save for the faint sound of Jehan’s throat working as he swallowed. “You’re not anorexic, are you, Jehan?” Courf gently asked eventually.

                “ _Non_ ,” Jehan insisted quietly, his mouth twisting. “I just forget to eat sometimes.”

                “And?” Courfeyrac prompted.

                “And what?” the poet spit.

                “And are there foods that you don’t eat ever, even when you _do_ remember to eat?”

                He hesitated, “ _Non_ … _ouais_.”

                “Which?” Courf bit out.

                Jehan’s hands tightened around the cup. “It’s not as if this is a big deal, Courfeyrac. I am perfectly fine.” He tried to pull his wrist away from the vice-like grip he found it in, but the older boy just held on tighter, shaking his head.

                “It’s not alright. It is nowhere even _near_ alright. None of this is, Jehan. I mean, just _look_ at yourself.”

                “I refuse.”

                When Jehan had downed as much of the protein-powder-milk-combination as his stomach could handle, he drifted off to sleep on the couch, curled into himself as he always was.

                Courfeyrac sat and watched his boyfriend’s fitful sleep and he suddenly got it, suddenly understood why Jehan always slept like he did, with his knees pulled to his chest and his arms bent back up over his head, hands tangled in his hair.

                It was so he could pet at the baby-fine hairs that grew at the nape of his neck while he drifted off.

                Like Courf always did when Jehan fell asleep in his lap.

                Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He stumbled out of the apartment and ran out to the street, sitting down hard on the stoop outside their building and pulling his cell phone from the kangaroo pocket on the front of his sweatshirt and finding the desired number in his contacts.

                It was quiet for a few moments and all Grantaire could hear was Courfeyrac’s shallow breathing on the other end. If not for the distant sounds of traffic in the background, he would have honestly thought that the line was dead. “Courf?” he asked softly, trying his best to be gentle.       

                “‘Taire,” the voice on the other end whispered, sounding wrecked and very, _very_ un-Courfeyrac. “‘Taire, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, god, I just…I didn’t know who else to call.”

                Grantaire’s stomach turned at the words, “What’s wrong, Courf?”

                There was a loud hiccup and then Courfeyrac was _sobbing_ into the phone and Grantaire felt all the breath leave his body in an instant. In as many years as he’d known Courfeyrac, he’d _never_ heard the man cry, not even when he’d sliced his hand open on a broken bottle (which had to have hurt, but Courf being Courf had just laughed). “I just don’t know what to do. He won’t _eat_ , and fuck, I’m crying. But ‘Taire, he won’t _listen_ and I don’t know what to _do_.”

                “Who?”

                It was a whisper through the tears and Grantaire was honestly kind of shocked that he could even understand Courfeyrac.

                “Jehan.”

                “Jehan?” he repeated, his voice barely audible.

                Courfeyrac’s entire body shook, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the cold of being out on the street in front of his apartment building in just his t-shirt or from the horror of seeing his Jehan so fragile and delicate, as he willed himself to tell Grantaire what had happened without breaking down. “He told me he weighs a hundred and four pounds, ‘Taire. A hundred and four. He oughtta be dead, or something, I dunno, I mean, what’s the healthy weight gotta be for someone as tall as he is? It’s definitely not a hundred and four fucking pounds. Apparently it’s been happening for a while now, but I didn’t know that it was this _bad_. He doesn’t _eat_ , ‘Taire. What if…,” his voice got—if possible—quieter, “What if he _dies_?”

                Grantaire sucked in a breath, trying to think of something to say. What did you say the person who loved your best friend more than he loved himself when said best friend was slowly destroying himself? “He won’t die, Courf. We’ll fix it.”

                Courfeyrac scoffed, still crying softly, “ _How?_ ”

                “I’m don’t know,” he said, figuring that going with honesty was more often than not a pretty safe choice. “But we will.”

                “ _How?_ ” Courfeyrac repeated frantically.

                “I don’t _know_ , Courf. But I swear to you, we _can_ fix this and we _will_. Combeferre and Enjolras can fix anything; you know that.”

                “But what if we _can’t?_ ”

                “We will,” Grantaire argued, his severe tone leaving absolutely no room for any argument on Courfeyrac’s part.

                Courf let out a shaky breath, “ _Merci_ , ‘Taire. I’m trying so hard to be strong for him but it’s just…” he trailed off with a sigh. “It’s hard.”

                “You can be. You _are_ , Courf. And, _Dieu ne plaise_ , if it just gets too bad, or too much, or too what-the-fuck-ever, just call us, any one of us. We all…we love you, you and Jehan both.”

                “I’m just so afraid I won’t be able to save him this time.”


	5. Lorsque Vous Coupez, Coupez Moi Aussi (When You Cut, Cut Me, Too)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan was very good at hiding things, squirreling them away in the recesses of his mind, and it wasn’t until he had dozens of scars parading up his wrists, heading towards his elbows, tracing lines of white scar and blue veins and red blood in beautiful twisty tricolor there on his arms that Courfeyrac even noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers for self-harm and cutting.

                Great writers’ minds were dark and scary places.

                Jehan knew that.

                It was what made their writing so beautiful, and pure.

                He knew that as well.

                What he didn’t know, for a long time, was that most great writers had a voice in their head, and writing was the only way to shut it up. He didn’t know until he heard the voice trapped in his own head.

                And once it started, it never stopped. Because Jehan thought like a child, and he was an artist to the core, a poet, so he only ever thought to think with his own heart, about his own self, about his own pain and he reveled in it. After that, Jehan’s fingertips were always stained with ink and he was constantly writing with a terrifying feverish light in his eyes, his hand moving so fast across page after page after page that Courfeyrac nearly thought that it just might come flying right off.

                And he had just smiled and kept on writing full tilt and he didn’t realize that the voice was a poison until it was too late.

                So he tried to cut it out of himself.

                That was how he found himself holding a razor blade gingerly to his wrist one night, while Courf was at work. He let it glide over the thin skin of his arm, biting down on his lip because he was genuinely surprised by the pain _,_ watching the blood drip down his arm and into the sinkand everything kind of fell into place.

                And he kept it a secret for a while, because Jehan was very good at hiding things, squirreling them away in the recesses of his mind, and it wasn’t until he had dozens of scars parading up his wrists, heading towards his elbows, tracing lines of white scar and blue veins and red blood in beautiful twisty tricolor there on his arms that Courfeyrac even noticed.

                Courfeyrac didn’t notice at first, attributing the splotches on the floor to Grantaire, who had been Jehan’s previous roommate (from before the apartment merry-go-round went full circle and he and Jehan were living in the place that used to be Jehan-and-Grantaire’s and Grantaire was living with Enjolras in the place that used to be Enjolras-and-Combeferre’s and Combeferre was living in the place that used to be Courfeyrac’s) and tended to leave trails of paint drops and charcoal dust behind him.

                He didn’t notice at first because sweaters and hoodies were normal things to wear in the fall and winter and early spring.

                He didn’t notice because he was just so damn glad that Jehan was eating again, that his ribs and hipbones had receded back into his body.

                But he did notice when he picked up a book from the small stack left on their kitchen table and started reading and realized that on every fifth or sixth page, there was a neat little drop of blood, long dried, deep brown by then and flaking off the paper.

                So he started to watch. He tried not to be obvious when he washed all of Jehan’s long sleeved clothes at once and the poet responded by pulling on Courfeyrac’s own sweatshirt. He tried to be discreet when he counted the number of replacement razorblades in the box in the medicine cabinet.

*

                Jehan blinked back the darkness and found himself staring at his own wrist, flecked with dried blood, an ugly brown. He inhaled deeply through his mouth, tasting salt and copper and iron, all in one.

                Blood.

                Red-brown against the stark whiteness of his skin and the toilet and the bathtub and the floor, dark stains on pristine porcelain and ceramics.

                Old blood.

                Hours old.

                He’d been lying in his blood for _hours_.

                And if he’d been out for hours…Courf was coming home soon. His beautiful, carefree Courf. Jehan would have done anything for him and thinking of Courf finding him, like that, made him feel kind of sick.

                But Courfeyrac had impeccable timing and found him like just like that, the first time.

                He sank to his knees and just whispered, “Why, Jehan? Why?” and Jehan wished that he would be angry at him, would yell and scream and tell him that he hated him, because that would be easier than replying, “I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” and watching the face of the only man that he had ever loved plummet to the tiled floor beneath them.

                The next time, Courf was there in time to pull the razor away with no damage done. The older boy gripped the blade so tightly when he ripped it out of Jehan’s palm that he ended up slicing into his own. He picked Jehan up and held him all night long, cuddling him and telling him how much he lvoed him and to “Please, Jehan, _don’t_ ”.

                Jehan pretended Courfeyrac wasn’t even there most of the time, pretended that he was just another voice crawling through the depths of his brain.

                There were the good days, days when Jehan could stop and breathe and put the razor down or even hand it to Courf to throw away.

                And then there were the truly dark days, when Courfeyrac would find him in the bathtub, sitting in cooling water and watching his blood disperse into swirling patterns in the water.

                The older boy cried himself to sleep at night, wishing for a way that he could save his little poet from himself.


	6. Belle Destruction (Beautiful Destruction)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How frail the human heart must be—a mirrored pool of thought.” 
> 
> ― Sylvia Plath (The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers for suicide, suicidal thoughts and actions, and cutting.
> 
> kisses, lovelies. get your tissues ready.

                Courfeyrac felt like he was trapped, sinking, drowning, suffocating.

                He had realized—eventually; inevitably—that Jehan would never blossom into his full potential in Courfeyrac’s presence, never blossom despite his presence. That realization shattered him, cut open his chest, and knotted his soul with the dexterity of a sailor. But he knew that what he was doing was right. It had to be. God, it had to be. It had to be worth something.

                He’d decided on the day when he’d been thumbing through Jehan’s battered copy of “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath” and had come across a double-underlined passage that sealed the deal for him.

_ “I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.” _

                He smothered a sob with the back of his hand because that was the proof he’d been looking for all along. He loved Jehan, but Jehan didn’t—and never would—love him back.

                He was very uncharacteristically methodical about the whole thing. He stretched saran wrap over the tiled floor of the bathroom, gathered his supplies. Writing never his strongest suit, he scribbled out something nevertheless because he felt that it would be wrong to do so without something left behind to explain, and comfort, and memorialize.

                That was it; he was going to do it.

                He sat on the closed lid of the toilet for a long time, staring at the bottle of little pale orange pain pills and the knife on the floor in front of him. Fuck, it was going to be messy. He hoped to God that his sweet, precious baby Jehan wouldn’t have to be the one to clean it up. Knowing his friends, Combeferre would probably hire a professional cleaning crew or something drastic like that.

                He picked up the pills and the wickedly sharp blade and set them down on the counter, filling the cup they kept next to the sink with water. He sat down, leaning against the side of the bathtub, and popped the first pill into his mouth. “Cheers, _mon petit_ ,” he murmured before swallowing it down on a sip of metallic tap water.

                Then it was two then three then four then five then six then seven then eight and his vision was beginning to get fuzzy when he picked up the knife and sliced a line from his wrist to his elbow, good and deep. The blood bloomed across his skin as soon as he pulled the blade away, but he moved on, undeterred, to make one to match on his other arm. Then it was just back and forth, one slice, two slice, from arm to arm and then carving upside-down words into the skin below his ribcage until his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t even hold the knife anymore.

                Everything was blurry at the edges and there was blood on the floor and it was seeping through the plastic wrap and his hands wouldn’t stop fucking _shaking_ and he felt cold and lightheaded and shaky and his hands were covered in his own blood and he’d forgotten how to move by then.

                Courfeyrac lay down on his side with a sigh and traced his fingers idly over the grout between the tiles and watched his blood pump out of his body and waited. He clutched at the fold letter in his hand, reassuring himself that it was still there, that somehow he’d be able to tell them why this thing happened, and what to do when he was gone, and that he loved him, loved Jehan so much.

                Courfeyrac didn’t want to die.

                He’d never wanted to die.

                He’d never wanted to die he’d never wanted to die he’d never wanted to die.

                He was never going to.

                He hadn’t meant to go that far he’d honestly had no idea what he was doing not even in the slightest.

                He hadn’t meant to.

                God, he hadn’t meant to die.

*

                Courfeyrac was, in a single word, different. He was lively and vibrant and carefree, reminding Jehan of child in every way possible. He talked too loud and moved too fast and was always inches away from smacking someone in the face as he gestured animatedly whenever he talked. He oozed charm, had everyone in fits of laughter or near-laughing almost all of the time with his farfetched anecdotes and sweetly-sharp retorts.

                It had been a good day for Jehan, and it had been thoughts of Courfeyrac that had danced through his head as he’d skipped from class to class that day, filling him with the utmost of joys. What he found when he came home, though, both confused and terrified him.

                Courfeyrac was not in the apartment.

                Or if he was, he was behind the locked bathroom door.

                And Courfeyrac never locked doors. Locked doors were for Jehan. Courf did not lock doors.

                He knocked softly at the door again and again, panicked little murmurs of “Courf?” spilling from his lips.

                Two minutes later, the door was flying open under the force of applied pressure from Jehan’s shoulder and what he found sent him down into the deepest ravine he had ever discovered within his soul. He was met with blood, so much blood, the tiles covered in the unmistakable dark red color, and the room smelled familiarly of salt and iron and copper.

                It smelled like blood.

                Courfeyrac’s blood.

                Jehan couldn’t even think. He felt as if he’d been shot in the heart. He couldn’t process, couldn’t think of what to do or think or say as he felt the low burn in his nose, a warning that tears were well on their way.  So he screamed.

                “ _Non_ , Courf, please, _s’il te plaît_ , Courf, _non_! _Je ne permets pas, pas maintenant, et ne jamais_!” He choked back a whimper, “Come back, _mon amour_ , please, please, Courf, come back.”

                He slammed his fists into the wall, pulled down the shower curtain, and screamed a long, loud shriek that dissipated into a wail.  He could not contain himself. There was so much inside of him, so many emotions, more than he had ever felt before, and he didn’t know how to express any of them with words.

                He was trapped.

                He was sinking.

                He was drowning.

                He was suffocating.

                He fell to the floor and hugged the now-lifeless body of his beloved tight. He trembled and choked for air as he gathered the small, dark-haired figure into his arms and peppered the pale, bloodless lips and cheeks with kisses because Courfeyrac always woke up to kisses and he would hold true to form and wake up because he couldn’t be dead.

                Courfeyrac couldn’t possibly be dead.

                Weaving lines traced up and down and across his arms and in the soft skin of his stomach were cut words, eleven of them. Eleven words that rocked Jehan, shook him to the core.

_I DESIRE THE THINGS THAT WILL DESTROY ME IN THE END_

                Jehan sat back on his heels, covered in Courfeyrac’s blood, and the petals of the flowers that had been twisted into Jehan’s hair that morning courtesy of a faux-disgruntled Grantaire. He couldn’t bring himself to push Courf’s body out of his lap because that would be giving up, that would mean that Courf really was gone, and he wasn’t gone.

                He couldn’t be.

                He finally noticed the piece of paper clutched tight in Courfeyrac’s fist, peeled it out gently, and opened it, smoothing it out on his lap.

                _“I’ll miss you. All of you.”_

                Oh.

                _Oh._

                Oh shit.

                _“Combeferre,_

_Oh, Combeferre. Don’t beat yourself up over this one. This was something that not even you could have ever stopped, you brilliant human being, you. I was just another patient that you could never hope to save. I’m sorry._

_Enjolras,_

_I know that this will probably cut you to the bone because you love us all more than we love each other, more than any of us ever could. I just want you to know that I wouldn’t have made it this far without you, oh fearless leader. Your words made me want to fight another day, but I just can’t anymore. I’m giving up. I’m sorry._

_‘Taire,_

_I’m glad you tried to help. It doesn’t matter now, but you cared, you wanted to see me at my best, and you treated me like I should have treated me. I should have listened. I’m so sorry._

_Jehan,_

_For once, I don’t know what to say. As usual, I don’t have the first fucking clue what to write. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing can be worse than this, Jehan. Don’t you see? This is hell._

_THIS IS HELL._

_This is hell and you don’t see it. You can’t see it, because you made this hell, made it special, just for me. It kills me to see you breaking apart, shreds me from the inside out, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. I can’t go on like this._

_You never listened to me. You never trusted me when I said, “It’s gonna be okay”. You never loved me enough to stop. I was always the one who bandaged up the cuts on your wrists whenever I found you bleeding on the bathroom floor and all the while, I was holding back all the voices screaming at me that I was wrong to even try to save you. I said you were worth it, that I was something that you would fight to stay alive for, because you loved me._

_God was I stupid._

_D’you want an excuse? Well, fuck you very much, I don’t have one. I love you, but I didn’t know how to love you. I tried, but it’s hard to love someone who refuses to love themselves, much less another person. I tried; I tried to SAVE you, even though it didn’t make any difference. It didn’t matter how much I loved you. You were still wasting away—I swear to God, Jehan, there were days when I would’ve sworn under oath that I could see the sunshine bleeding out of your bones, could see daylight shining through them—and I was finding new scars ALL THE TIME. Can you even begin to imagine how scary that was for me? It was horrifying. Trying to save you from yourself was like trying the catch the wind in my fist. I hate myself for not being enough for you, for not being enough for you to want to save yourself for me._

_But I don’t hate you. God, Jehan, I could never hate you. I love you too damn much._

_I know that you’re probably going to be the one that yanks this folded-up piece of paper from my cold, dead hand._

_Just…be happy, okay? Don’t let this ruin your life. And know that I love you; that I always have loved you and I always will love you. I’m so sorry._

_But please, Jehan, even if you forget what the exact color of my eyes is or how many freckles are on my back or what my voice sounds like when I’m half-asleep and half-awake and have a cold, don’t you ever even dare forget that I love you. I love you so much. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you._

_I’ve thought about it a lot and it’s better this way. I won’t be pulling the light out of your eyes anymore, dragging it away when I watch you starve and cut and waste away in front of me because you. Don’t. Care. When I’m gone, I hope you can finally be happy._

_When I’m gone, there won’t be a center. Please take care of them all, especially ‘Taire. And take care of yourself, too. I know that sometimes you don’t love yourself but please don’t feel like that, Jehan. You’re so, so pretty, my darling, sweet Jehan, and so, so beautiful._

_I love you so much, sweetheart._

_I’m sorry I wasn’t not as strong as you thought I was. I’m only strong on the surface, not all the way through to the core. I’m so sorry._

_I wasn’t ready to die, but you didn’t really leave me with a whole lot of choice. It was you or me, and it might as well have been me. Without me, you’ll still have your poetry. Without you, I’d have nothing to live for anymore._

_So this is for you._

_Always for you._

_Everything I do, I do for you._

_I will always love you._

_Forever yours,_

_Courf”_

                When he finished the note, he began to scream at the body still curled in his arms. “Courf, you idiot! You goddamn idiot! Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me help you? How could you ever even begin to expect me to be happy about this?” He sobbed, “It’s all my fault. I could have saved you.”

                When Jehan finally fell asleep curled around the smaller man, it had been three hours and he’d wept and screamed himself to the brink of exhaustion, never once letting go of Courfeyrac’s body. His wonderful, precious, gorgeous, darling Courf, who he had never known had had been so sick and so sad and so scared and who could’ve been saved, could’ve still been there if Jehan had just opened his own stupid goddamn eyes and thought about someone who wasn’t Jehan for once. He could have saved the person who meant the whole world to him, but he hadn’t. He had failed; he had failed the broken man who loved him so much and who he had never told “I love you” enough.

_*_

            Enjolras peered at his watch for about the fiftieth time in the past fifteen minutes as Grantaire watched him uneasily from the corner where he was sketching. The blonde shot a look at Combeferre, who shook his head and glanced away. “Joly!” he called.

                The tiny med student perked up, turning away from whatever story Bossuet was telling him, and cocked his head to the side. _“_ _Oui_ _,_ Enjolras?”

_“_ Have you heard from Courfeyrac today?”

                He shook his head, _“_ _Non, je suis_ _désolé_.”

He waved a hand dismissively, “Okay, _merci_ _.”_ He turned to address the entire group, raising his voice just a little. “Has _anyone_ heard from Jehan today?”

                A general chorus of “No” rippled through the room.

                Enjolras had only just started to speak again when he was interrupted by Grantaire’s phone blaring the chorus of “Billy Don’t Be A Hero”. He glared at the artist, only to get a sideways smirk in return. “Speak of the devil,” Grantaire grinned, “And the devil shall appear.” He pressed a few keys on his phone and then set it on the table, “Hey, Jehan. You’re on speaker.”

                Jehan took a shaky breath. “‘Taire?”

_“_ _Oui_ _,_ who did you call, _imbécile_ _?”_

The poet breathed loudly, directly into the phone. “Something happened.”

                The tone of his voice made Grantaire’s brow crinkle in confusion. His heartbeat slowed immediately, sluggish in an instant. “What kind of a thing?”

                “A _bad_ thing,” the poet whispered, his voice breaking. Grantaire looked up to meet Enjolras’s eyes, his face white. Combeferre moved almost unconsciously to stand beside the blonde, hand on his elbow.

                 “How bad,” Combeferre breathed. It was not a question, even though it was phrased like one.

                “ _Bad_.”

                “Jehan, how bad?” Enjolras asked.

                “It’s so bad, Enjolras.”

                “Prouvaire!” Grantaire barked, startling a few of the men now gathered around his phone. “How. Bad?”

                They heard a choked sob come through the phone and then Jehan blurted, “Courf’s dead.”

                Feuilly’s hand came up to cover his mouth with an audible smack. Joly ducked his head into Bossuet’s shoulder. Bahorel’s fingers gripped the edge of the table like he was trying to snap it in half. “No,” Enjolras insisted, like he could make Jehan take it back, make it _not true._ _“_ _No_ _.”_

Jehan sobbed. “He’s dead. He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead.”

                “Jehan,” Combeferre soothed. “Maybe you’re wro—”

                “‘Ferre,” the poet interrupted, his voice only marginally steadier. “He left a note. He’s dead.”

                “Fuck,” Enjolras mumbled, turning away so Grantaire wouldn’t see him rubbing at his eyes. He was only a little surprised when Combeferre hugged him, quick but firm.

                None of them slept that night, hoping that they would awaken and find that the whole ordeal, the whole nightmare, had been but a dream. They all drifted off and awoke again, finding their worlds turned upside-down each time they did.

                But Courfeyrac—Courf, who always made them laugh, who was always smiling and devil-may-care and sunny and alive alive alive—didn’t wake up.

                Ever.

                After that, things changed.

                Combeferre slept too much and started skipping classes, preferring to stay curled in the warmth of his apartment which had once belonged to Courfeyrac.

                Feuilly didn’t eat enough and barely made it through work, getting more and more worn down, until he was barely more than a wraith.

                ‘Ponine didn’t eat at all. Not one could reason with her, not even Grantaire, and eventually he had reluctantly called Montparnasse to take her to a psychiatric ward.

                Joly cried more, unable to hold himself together without the constant of Courf’s teasing smile there.

                Bossuet didn’t sleep, and instead took to wandering the parks at night, enormous purple circles spreading under his eyes.

                Bahorel smoked more, and more, until it was an entire pack every ten or twelve hours, instead of in a week.

                Enjolras didn’t speak hardly ever, and when he did, his voice was always hoarse from disuse, not the rich honey tone it had once been.

                Grantaire drank more, probably enough to kill a lesser man.

                Every once in a while, they would gather in someone’s apartment to watch old home movies and laugh along with Courfeyrac with tears marking their cheeks and sobs forcing their way out of their throats, because they remembered. Because friendships like theirs could never really die.

                They never really moved on.

                They never really forgot.

                And Jehan never stopped loving Courfeyrac, or writing for him, but there was no doubt that he was wasting away because there was no Courf to keep him alive and well, no one to save him. He finally understood what it must have been like for Courf to watch him fall apart, because he finally knew what it was like to be so desperate for someone to live, for them to open their stupid goddamn eyes, and see just how much they mattered, how fucking important it was for them to breathe for just one more day.

                Jehan hadn’t stopped breathing.

                Not yet.


End file.
